A Purpose for Numbers
by alifestylechoice
Summary: He counts the buttons of his shirts, the padlocks on his door, and each day he has spent alone while Treize Khushrenada remains dead. 3x6, suggestion of 1x3, 13x6, others. Character Death, Angst, weird romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Purpose for Numbers (1/?)  
**Author:** alifestylechoice   
**Fandom:** Gundam Wing (3x6, a little 1x3, others)   
**Rating:** R (Sexin', Angstin', Angsty Sexin'…)  
**Words:** 4,316  
**Summary:** "Relena still thinks we fought for a sense of justice or the well-being of the people. We were much more selfish than that."

_A/N: The majority of this is finished, and I had intended this to be in three parts, but maybe I can squish it into two. I've missed writing for this fandom so much. Enjoy!_

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**A Purpose for Numbers**

_Part One_

At 4:24PM, there was a knock at his door.

Zechs looked up from his book. He had read the same paragraph for the past fourteen minutes, eyes rhythmically rocking to and fro in his sockets. He knew it was fourteen minutes, because he counted. No absorption.

Book on the side table, he rose and pulled on a stray t-shirt hanging on the back of the recliner. Even though it was the early afternoon, it was beginning to get dark, winter fast approaching and stealing the daylight hours.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt as he unlocked the three bolts that sealed his door. When he opened it, he regarded Trowa Barton with an air of calm. He had been expecting him.

Trowa met him with a hard stare, difficult to see through the bangs that hung in front of his face. But, Zechs peered through two strands and caught a ghost of moisture at the edge of one eye. He blinked, and it was gone.

"01 is dead," Trowa said softly, but with firm reserve. He wore a white t-shirt with four tiny holes in the front (must've been from a belt buckle, Zechs mused), and two of the fingers of his left hand fiddled with a loose thread. In his right was a backpack slung over his shoulder, hanging by one strap, the other torn off.

Zechs nodded. "I know." He opened the door fully, shifted out of his way. Trowa entered tentatively, stopping for a moment in front of him to make eye contact before walking slowly into the living room. The floor was hardwood and his steps were heavy. Filled the room.

Closing the door, Zechs spoke as he routinely locked up his door, metal sliding upon and across metal. One, two, three. "The couch pulls out into a bed. The clock is loud, but you'll get used to it." He assumed the boy's stay would extend for weeks, if the volume of his backpack told the correct story.

"My room is over there." He flicked his neck in its general direction. Trowa didn't look up. "Bathroom is across the hall. Towels in the closet in there. Kitchen over there."

Trowa stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, arms crossed and shoulders slumped. He was nervous, and attempting to hide the fact. The four fingers of his right hand clutched his arm. He had only taken eight steps into the room and stood still as a streetlamp; Zechs didn't know if the boy could summon the strength to move.

"Your coat," he said, extending his hand. Trowa jolted, like he had been startled, and stared at Zechs's outstretched fingers for nearly ten whole seconds before silently slipping his thin jacket off his shoulders. When he handed it off, their fingers touched, and his arms quickly resumed a crossed position. Zechs hung the jacket on a hook next to where his own overcoat hung, just inside the hall closet door. That hook had been vacant for some time.

Zechs walked into the kitchen, letting out a breath. He opened the cabinet above the counter, reaching for a plate. "Are you a vegetarian?" he asked the dinnerware. Didn't know if it was okay yet to look him in the eyes.

Trowa shook his head.

The second plate was taken out of the cupboard—Zechs only had two—and he made a note to rinse it as he boiled water for pasta. Hadn't been used in awhile.

He set about making dinner, stealing glances at the boy who stood so still in his living room, knowing everything he was thinking and that time would be heavy and motionless for awhile. He vaguely realized that it had been nearly five years since he had seen Trowa in person, although he had felt the echoes of his presence and influence damn near everywhere he turned. The Preventers had made contact with him, 04 had scoured the colonies looking for him, his own sister had called upon him at one point or another.

Now, he stood taller, his hair had grown longer in the back, tied in a short ponytail. He looked older than his twenty-one years. Looked tired. His pants were too short for his long legs. He was too thin.

Zechs understood.

He was thrown from his thoughts by hot oil that spit from the pan cooking the chicken. He looked down at the two offending drops, wiped them off with a paper towel. He hadn't made this much food in years.

In a canister on his kitchen counter, he pulled two forks, two knives. Divided the meal evenly between two plates.

He turned to his guest, who had fallen asleep on the couch, face pressed against the cool leather of the armrest. His bangs were pushed out of his face. His skin was pale and clammy, in spite of the cool weather. There was a good possibility he was making himself sick.

Zechs reached out, pads of his fingers grazing the side of Trowa's cheek. The skin was cold.

He stood, covered him with a blanket that hung over the couch, and left a plate of food in the microwave. Zechs ate in silence, next to the sleeping boy. He knew that waking up alone from now on was not an option.

* * *

It was 3:49AM when Zechs stirred.

He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in over five years, and his eyes adjusted naturally to the warm lamplight in the room.

Trowa stood in the doorway. His torso was bare, and he clutched his shirt in his hands. He took an experimental step into the room. Cold floor.

Zechs rubbed his face with one hand. He took a deep breath before speaking, the drowsiness working its way from his throat.

"Come here."

Trowa started at the sound, and froze. Zechs was patient. He knew that the decision was already made, when it came down to a warm body or an empty bed.

Six minutes passed before Trowa approached the bed. His knees bumped into the side. Zechs turned off the light and shifted, turning the covers over in invitation. He felt his unstable weight against the mattress—his eyes were still getting used to the dark when he felt Trowa's cold cheek against his back, his long, thin fingers wrapping around his stomach. He involuntarily shivered.

The boy was thin, but had caught up to his height. Zechs contemplated how well they fit. He had grown to be broad-shouldered. The muscles in Trowa's legs flexed against the backs of his thighs.

He felt the ex-pilot's nose against his shoulder, and his erection against the small of his back.

Trowa made a noise that sounded something between a cry and a whine.

No doubt he was desperate, and lonely, and afraid, and what should matter and should happen wasn't happening, no matter his efforts. He was becoming something unfamiliar, and feeling emotions he had buried since the day he took a dead man's name. Zechs could feel the boy's heart beat irregularly against his back.

He took the shaky hand that was splayed across his chest and grasped it in his own. Their ten fingers together forged a silent contract, a fierce understanding.

Trowa pinned his shoulders to the bed with the force of a bomb. Zechs saw in his two eyes a hint of sadness clouded by an immediate need for belonging. They both breathed heavily, and when Trowa's fingers failed him, Zechs pulled down his waistband for him. Skin on skin, they pressed their bodies together clumsily. Too hot. A gutteral noise escaped Trowa's mouth.

Zechs choked on the air. Anticipation prickled his spine and down his legs, burning him. His mouth was warm, and they were fighting for control of their own bodies.

Trowa lifted his head, gasping for air, a thin string of saliva stretched between their bottom lips. He gripped the sides of Zechs' face, thumbs pressing against high cheekbones, fingers raking through blonde locks. His eyes were cloudy, his pupils dilated. Breath was short.

He kissed the blonde again, tongue sliding across bruised lips, holding his head in place with intense pressure. Zechs lay still, ignoring the twinge of anxious, shaking fingers that dug into his hipbones. He would let the boy have sadness. He would show him safety. It was the one thing he needed most, at that time.

Weight on one forearm, Trowa reached between them and took Zechs' cock in his hand, the rough pad of his thumb applying searing friction to the underside of the head. Zechs squeezed his eyes shut, spread his legs wider. Hips angled to the ceiling. Trowa was stroking him hard, stopping only to occasionally spit in his hand. Noises spilled from his mouth, like this was turning him on, too.

Before he thought his back would snap, Zechs felt Trowa's weight shift, heat lifting away. He cracked open an eye, sweat on his brow and upper lip, saw the boy take two fingers in his mouth. The bones of his shoulders were prominent, the muscles somehow appearing, contained by skin too pale. His other hand held his cock, smearing precome along his shaft. He used his knees to push Zech's legs apart. Stroked himself a dozen times before shuddering, squeezing the base. He was losing control.

Zechs sat up, grabbed Trowa's forearm. Guided it to his entrance. They held their mouths open, inches apart, as Zechs felt his two fingers slide into him.

"You can't hurt me," he said, voice barely a whisper.

He forced himself to relax, gripped Trowa's arm tightly still, focusing on the way the shadows of the boy's neck formed geometric shapes. The moonlight from the window wasn't bright, but gave off a dull haze. Edges were fuzzy.

A third finger was inserted, and he was being stretched. His cock was hard against his stomach, but he didn't touch. Dug his fingers into the sheets, into Trowa's arm.

"Fuck, yes," he spit out, his voice acting on its own accord.

He was thrown back down onto the bed, his leg drawn up to his chest, Trowa's hand gripping the back of his knee. Spreading him wider. Trowa spit into his hand. Zechs would tell him later about the lube in the top drawer of the nightstand. When they did this again.

Trowa entered him without hesitation, in one swift movement. Zechs grunted, strangling any noise that dared to stop what was taking place in his bed. Pain took over his body, but he would not protest. They both knew that violence was sometimes an appropriate substitute to thought or reason.

Once he could open his eyes without seeing white, his eyes fixed on a bead of sweat that ran down Trowa's throat, leaving a trail of restraint. He felt the pressure between his legs decrease.

He wrapped his leg around Trowa's back, pushing him forward so his cock was buried in tight heat. Trowa shouted something indescribable, hand pressed into the bed next to Zech's head.

"You can't hurt me," Zechs repeated.

They paused, just breathing, their gaze locked. Tremors rocked both their bodies. Trowa began to move, angling his hips to go as deep as possible. It was so much. So fucking good. He shut his eyes tight as Zechs slammed himself onto his cock. Noises and murmurs fell from his lips that Zechs didn't understand, couldn't count. All ran into each other.

His back was hot; the bed was burning him. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his temples. Hair that was caught behind his shoulders was pulled tight with each powerful thrust.

Trowa's breath was on his face. His lips were pressed together, holding back. He moved faster and harder. He was grasping air. Zechs pulled him down for a kiss, fingers fisting his brown ponytail.

Trowa cracked, cries muffled by Zech's mouth. His hips moved frantically, slapping against the back of the man's thighs with violent force. He grasped fistfuls of blonde hair, a shoulder, a thigh. He wheezed his breaths. The sounds were liquid and hot and wrapped around Zech's cock like fire.

Trowa tensed, spider webs in his neck. Zechs grabbed his cock and began jerking off as Trowa came, slamming his hips forward a final time.

Zechs closed his eyes, and a memory of two blue eyes and hopeful youth lit his vision in a single moment. He came as Trowa collapsed on his chest, still embedded inside him.

They lay there for seven minutes in the suffocating air. Zechs didn't move as Trowa lifted his head to stare at him, holding his face in his hands. His green eyes squinted, seemed to not focus. Hard to understand.

Trowa closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side. Guilt hung in the air.

Zechs pulled the blankets over them. Back to back, he closed his eyes. He felt the silent sobs that wracked Trowa's body as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Every morning, Zechs left the house at 7:00AM to run. He had realized how the people of earth take advantage of the air itself. The musty air of the colonies left something to be desired. The city was too crowded for the convenience of a park, so he ran through alleys, around the power plant, through the outdoor market, and through three different neighborhoods as part of his daily route.

He was never a man of routine, but now he understood it. It filled vacancies in the mind.

The morning after Trowa Barton arrived, he came back after his run, and found the boy back on the couch, blanket pulled down to reveal one smooth hip.

His eyes roamed over that hip, down to long thin fingers that lined up in a row like soldiers, down the plaid pattern of the blanket. He shook his head. Nothing was different.

He was cracking the second egg in a pan when he heard Trowa's padded feet on the kitchen floor. They stopped just behind him.

"Eggs?" Zechs asked, watching two yolks slide from one side of the pan to the other.

"Sure. Yeah." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He sounded so small. "Let me give you money—"

"That's not necessary," Zechs said quickly, grabbing a spatula from the canister on the counter.

He felt a hand on his back. The hand was cold and he fought the shiver that wanted to surface.

"There has to be something I can do. To repay you. I just didn't—I didn't—"

"Sit down." The hand was gone. His voice was short, and he turned around in apology, his eye contact his forgiveness. War had taught him to mince words. Trowa's face softened. "Have some eggs."

He turned back to the pan, and felt the hand return on his back, warmer this time.

"Thanks," Trowa said. As he turned, his palm lingered across his shoulder blades. He retreated to the living room.

Zechs let out the breath he was, for lack of reason, holding, and glanced at the clock. 9:35AM, four minutes behind schedule. He was meeting Relena at ten-thirty, couldn't be late.

They ate in silence, but it was comfortable.

Zechs rose from his chair. "Shower," he mumbled under his breath. He really had to meet Relena. He was late.

He closed the door to his bedroom, stripping out of sweats and grabbing a towel from the closet. From the kitchen, he heard the sink water turn on, silverware clanking against glass. He knew what it was like to make himself useful.

Five minutes to wash his hair, two to wash his face, another five to scrub down and two to brush his teeth (more efficient if done in the shower, he'd found out). Today was Thursday—he'd shave tomorrow.

He left the house without a word. He didn't know what Trowa would do with his day. That was okay.

* * *

"He's at your house?"

Relena crossed her legs and pressed the pads of her fingers together under the desk. She regarded her brother with an air of concern. He leaned against the edge of her desk, met her hard stare with his own.

"Yes," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "Right now, Trowa Barton is at your house."

"Yes," he repeated.

She looked at him for an entire thirty seconds. "What is he doing there?"

"Well, he did my dishes this morning," Zechs added.

"Zechs," she started.

Zechs sighed, loosened his tie. "He arrived last night. He's angry. He's confused. Leave it alone for awhile."

"Yes, well." She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. "He's not the only one. Some of us have to move on, though."

He chuckled. "He doesn't seem to have much to move on to."

She scoffed, then quickly composed herself. She took a deep breath. Her eyes were moist, Zechs noticed, but he didn't point out such things.

"What have you found out about 01's recent activity?" he asked, tone neutral. Distract her.

She nodded, and motioned over to the monitor on the opposite side of her desk. Zechs stood upright and walked over. Several maps and documents in different windows were pulled up on-screen, and his eyes darted to and fro naturally. Sorting.

"Quatre was the last one to make contact," Relena said, click-clicking away. "Four days ago, he said that Heero Yuy showed up at the Winner estate for a visit."

"…and?"

Relena turned to him, making a face. "Heero Yuy doesn't—_didn't_ go around making house calls."

"Was he working for anyone?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Unlikely. He's completed a couple commission jobs for the Preventers, but strictly as favors. Re-building, trashing, mechanical work. He wracked up some debt over the years, in that respect." The screen created lighted patterns across her face. She had a deep crease in her forehead that had lived there since her 17th birthday. "Quatre said that Heero asked him about me, what I had been doing, where I was planning on traveling."

"Why would he ask 04?"

She pivoted in her chair to face him. "Well, he _is_ the only one who has kept up with me on a somewhat regular basis. We seem to run into each other. Charity events and such. Duo calls every now and again. Wu Fei would rather slit his throat than acknowledge I exist."

"What about 03?"

Relena's gaze adverted back to the screen. "I haven't seen Trowa Barton in five years, since he moved to L1." She chewed her bottom lip. "I actually hadn't seen Heero in nearly two. I used to beg him to come see me here." She closed her eyes. "I didn't mean in a body bag."

Zechs paused, cleared his throat. Chose his words carefully. "What do you think Heero was doing?"

Her shoulders sagged as she rubbed her eye with the palm of her hand. "I don't know. Quatre told him that last he heard from me was that I was headed to L2 to make a speech at the memorial site there and overlook the reconstruction. But, no one on L2 has claimed to have seen Heero since he left L4. In all my life, maybe I've never known what Heero was doing, what he really thought, or what he really cared about. He's always acted on his own."

"He most likely didn't want us to know what he was doing."

She clenched her fist that lay on her lap. "I'm terrified that his death was somehow my fault."

"Don't jump to conclusions." He knelt in front of her, put his hand over hers.

She pushed back in her chair, looked at him. She brushed two stray hairs from her face; Zechs was sorry to say that she far surpassed her twenty-two years. Zechs feared that when she got to be his age, she would look in the mirror and see only a soldier.

"I know you don't care about Heero," she began, voice already beginning to waver.

He stopped her quickly—it was hard for him to show gentleness in such large amounts. "I have Trowa Barton staying at my house. I'm sure he'd like to know what happened at some point, if you ever figure it out. Right now, he's having trouble getting out of bed."

He saw the wince that overtook her features for an instant before she was on her feet and opening the door. "I'll do everything I can to find justice for Heero. I owe it to him. What I wonder, Zechs, is why are you sheltering and caring for a stranger?"

Zechs walked towards the exit, shrugging on his jacket. "Well, if you'd like the job, by all means."

She grabbed him by the sleeve. He smiled to himself—he was assuredly the only one in the entire universe that could turn her eyes to daggers. "You know I can't do that."

Zechs took her hand and leaned over, kissing her twice, softly on each side of her face. "So, I will."

* * *

The boy was there when he returned home at 5:40pm sharp, staring out the window through the venetian blinds. He looked up when Zechs entered, face blank.

"Did you see Relena?" he asked, voice quiet, but with a hint of urgency.

Zechs' eyes widened before he realized it, and he nodded once before hanging his jacket on the hook in the hall closet. "Yes. Did you want to talk to her?"

Trowa sat back, shoulders still tense. "She won't talk to me."

Zechs crossed his arms. It was all predictable. "Relena is, at her core, a compassionate being."

"She should be. She was queen of the world."

"The past five years have been hard on her. You'd be surprised."

"What about you?" Trowa asked. "Where is your crown? Where are your attendants, and your palace?"

Zechs smiled. "I want to be ordinary."

"That's a bit rich, coming from you."

"A lot changes in five years."

"I see that."

Zechs fell back onto the couch. "You find clarity when you're alone."

Trowa stared back out the window. The sun was almost over the horizon already. The sky was clear, three or four lingering clouds hovering over the vast spans of sky. Things were different on Earth. The air wasn't stale.

Zechs closed his eyes. He'd start making dinner at 6:30. He'd have to get more groceries soon. His mind was at ease, but his temples throbbed. They all had headaches after the war.

He felt Trowa's lips brush against his own. His eyes remained closed, but he pulled Trowa onto his lap, the heat of their contact a surprising comfort. A part of him was uneasy that dinner would, most likely, have to be pushed back.

The days stretched into weeks, and Zechs was unsure if Trowa was still seeking answers. He didn't really mind; there would always be two hooks in the hall closet. His new system of routines and defaults replaced the old one, but it was just as reliable and steadfast as the last. He knew what to expect now.

Even when one night, when Trowa finally caught his breath and said softly into the pillow,

"What happened to you when you found out he was dead?"

Zechs blinked twice before fixing a hard stare on Pilot 03, searching frantically for signs of pity or ridicule or mocking. He was difficult to read, but Zechs found no malice. Still, these were dangerous waters that he was testing. If Zechs had learned one thing out of this—this _thing_—it was that one could never be too careful.

"I don't remember much. But, I can tell you what other people said."

He sat up, back to the headboard. He rested his elbows on his knees, and focused on everything that was far away. "They said I went crazy. That Treize Khushrenada was dead, and I had gone crazy."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

Zechs paused. "Yes." He reached into the side drawer for a cigarette. "I imagine I was probably out of control. Couldn't think straight. They said I was sick. Relena was there, sometimes." The match took one lick at the air before Zechs flicked it out, setting it in the ashtray. He took two full drags before turning to face the boy, whose hair fell across his face in four sweat-laced stripes.

"You had someone else," Trowa said quietly.

Zechs grimaced through a smile. "Like I've said, Relena is a compassionate being." He sighed softly. "But, I didn't say she knew everything."

Trowa was silent, the light reflecting in his eyes through the slits of shadows created by his hair.

"She doesn't understand someone who doesn't want to live, now that all that he and I had fought for had come to fruition." He exhaled, three smoke rings rising to the ceiling. "She obviously doesn't know what we were fighting for. It's been two thousand, forty-nine days. She still thinks we fought for a sense of justice or the well-being of the people." A small smile tugged at his lip. "We were much more selfish than that."

Trowa took the cigarette from Zechs' hand, taking a drag. "You count the days," he said upon exhale. "Why?"

He took back the cigarette. Another pull. He didn't answer.

Trowa swallowed, looked up at Zechs, who had long ago adverted his eyes. "I'll leave tomorrow morning," he said slowly.

Zechs nodded. "That's fine."

He felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist. He took another pull at his cigarette, the smoke weaving through their entangled limbs.

"I don't think you're crazy," he heard Trowa say.

He didn't look down, because there was a possibility that he might attempt to convince Trowa to stay. But there was no reason. He had zero answers, so, he kept his chin up and blew smoke up to the ceiling fan until only the filter was left, and Trowa was asleep.

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_-tbc-_

_Thank you for reading--please review if you have the time!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** A Purpose for Numbers (2/?)**  
Author:** alifestylechoice   
**Fandom:** Gundam Wing (3x6, 13x6, a little 1x3, others)   
**Rating:** R (Sexin', Angstin', Angsty Sexin'…)  
**Words:** 4,050  
**Summary:** "If you ask me, there have been only two people I have ever known in my whole life who did nothing but produce one unanswerable question after another. One of them was Heero Yuy. The other was Treize Khushrenada."

_A/N: Thank you for the support for this fic—the response has been overwhelmingly positive. Just the fact that there was response at all just blows me away. I'm only fifteen years late to the fandom, after all. :-)._

Here's another dose of fic; I hope you enjoy.

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**A Purpose for Numbers**_  
Part Two_

He awoke at 7:00, as usual, and Trowa was gone. He expected this, because Trowa had always been a man of his word. What he didn't expect was the feeling of emptiness that settled unpleasantly in his stomach.

Zechs sat up in bed alone for the first time in nearly eight months. The sun was too bright and beamed through the window in harsh plates of light. He squinted and forced his eyes to adjust.

An hour later he greeted Relena at the Preventers Headquarters, and escorted her to the office of Lady Une. The ageless woman bowed slightly before motioning for the two siblings to take a seat. She nodded to her attendant.

"No one is to disturb us," she said firmly, but with an air of grace that demanded respect—she was the late Treize's right hand woman, after all. Her attendant gave a quick nod and bow before exiting the room, closing the large double doors behind him softly. Not even one click.

Une pressed the two palms of her hands to the surface of the door. Ten perfectly manicured nails gleamed at just the right angle. "I trust that you both are well."

"Nothing new to report," Relena said quickly. Like her brother, she was quick to get to the point. "Please, if you have any information regarding Heero, I'd like to hear it right away."

She squeezed Zechs' hand tightly, face expressionless. Her blood raced through her body with unease.

Lady Une nodded before standing to continue. Zechs' eyes darted down to her two black stilettos, and knew she took comfort in assuming power in situations where she felt uncomfortable. Changes were sudden.

"I trust I don't have to explain that this information is confidential," she began, perching on the corner of the desk. "I have a reliable source that says they made contact with Heero Yuy three days before…before his body arrived on Earth."

"I'm assuming it's pointless for us to inquire about the identity of your contact," Zechs said, eyes glued to the space on the wall where a photo of Une and Treize hung, the adjacent curtain casting a shadow over their faces.

She chuckled a bit. "You know how all this works."

"I'm just relieved to get any kind of information this late in the game," Relena said, cutting a look at her brother. Zechs backed down, sunk into his seat. Didn't want to make Relena upset.

"Our contact says that they had spoken to Heero, who said that he was collecting information on a radical group with roots in L2 called 'The Protectors'," Une continued, crossing her arms. "It was suggested there was talk of a possible uprising upon Relena's next visit to L2."

"The memorial site…" Relena muttered, mind racing. Zechs watched her press three fingers to her temple. She was desperate to remember any small details, and frustrated with the limits of her own mind; he understood these feelings, but didn't mention it.

Lady Une nodded, standing up from her desk to approach the videoscreen behind them, pulling up Heero's file. Her fingers dragged across its surface like it was sand at the beach. Heero's face appeared green in the fluorescent lights.

"I pulled up security briefs from our headquarters that pertain to every visit of yours to L2. A commonality is Heero's presence—if not serving as your personal bodyguard, he was usually seen close-by or involved with Preventer activities in relation to your appearance. But, his absence that day at L2 for the memorial speech is notable. Did you speak with him beforehand?"

"Yes," Relena answered slowly. Her eyes were closed. "He said that he couldn't make it because he was busy. I had asked him what was keeping him so busy these days, and he didn't really answer. He was always fairly elusive, to say the least. I trusted him."

Zechs shifted in his chair. There were two wilted roses in the vase across the room. The sight of them was anguish. "Who were the assisting officers providing security that day?" he asked.

Lady Une's eyebrows furrowed, and she waved her fingers across the screen, light flickering over her face. "We had a squad of forty, six in command for area monitoring, over three checkpoints. Officers Kahn, Jacobi, Warsh, Dumas, Dehond, and Hershad. Overseeing these commanders were two senior officers, Lucrezia Noin and Chang Wufei."

He blinked once as his chest constricted. "What was their report?"

"Nothing suspicious. The day was warm, clear—just about perfect."

"Are they here today, or on duty?" Relena asked.

Une smiled softly. "I've already informed them that you'd be meeting with them today. Noin is in the east hangar overseeing Taurus repairs. Wufei should be in the west dormitory—he just got back from L5 this morning."

"I'll talk to Noin first," Relena announced, rising from her chair. She reached out, and Une shook her hand once, firmly.

Zechs stood and began to walk towards the exit. He was two steps away from the door before pausing in his journey. He looked over his shoulder slightly to address her.

"What was Chang doing on L5?"

Lady Une stood from the edge of the desk, flipping her hair over her shoulder with the ease of practice. She adjusted the glasses on her nose and regarded Zechs with an air of knowing. "Getting married."

* * *

He waited forty-five seconds in the doorway before Wufei acknowledged his presence.

"Hello, Merquise," he said with no inflection or emotion, back turned towards him still, unpacking a small suitcase that lay open on his standard military bedroll. Zechs watched with interest as the boy stacked articles of clothing into piles or bunches. Five shirts. Five pairs of socks.

"I hear that congratulations are in order," Zechs said with equal indifference. He didn't call Wufei by name, because he feared it would taste bitter and rancid on his tongue; Zechs had very specific tastes.

Wufei paused for just a moment and regarded Zechs with a raised eyebrow. His face was always hard angles and spite, all hair tied tight and chin jutted out. It contorted strangely, a short laughing sound burst suddenly form his mouth. It could have been mistaken for a cough. He dragged the zipper around the empty suitcase. "Do you have something to talk to me about?"

Zechs navigated the conversation with the ease of space, with the tension of history. "Strictly business."

The suitcase was shoved to the side, and Wufei righted himself. He brushed three strands of hair behind his ear before fixing an indifferent stare on Zechs. "Then, you'll understand that time is a valuable asset, and wasting it is not only unnecessary, but detrimental to the both of us."

"Straight to the point, as usual."

"You're the one who claims this is 'strictly business.'"

"It's a lot to hope for," Zechs murmured. He ran his hand along the wall, his five fingertips traveling the divots and bumps of concrete before coming to rest on a solid spans of smooth surface. He appeared relaxed. Inside, his stomach coiled. Forced himself to breathe once, twice.

"Une says you want information about Relena's commemorative visit to L2 at the end of March of this year." Wufei had never been a patient man. Stood stick-straight and uncomfortable looking. He was fire and ice in one human being.

Zechs sighed, nodded firmly. "Relena's blames herself. Any information is appreciated."

"I'm sure you've figured out already that I'm the contact," Wufei muttered. He stooped down suddenly and rummaged through the cabinet in the bedside table that stood on three legs and a stack of four books. He pulled out a manilla folder.

Zechs smiled, cocking his head. "I've not lost my touch yet, I suppose."

Wufei gripped one bottom corner of the envelope and shook it's contents out onto his bedroll. Documents, maps, and photos littered the surface. Zechs' eyes flitted back and forth between the papers and the silver ring that wrapped around Wufei's fourth finger as he sorted through his research.

"Sally Po and I have been following the activities of the Protectors for over a year. They're a group of ex-soldiers whose headquarters are on L2, but their influence and sub-groups have populated the other colonies as well. They're anti-Earth—they believe that anyone and everything attached to Earth is toxic, will lead to more war and hardship on the colonies."

"Some people can't adapt to change," Zechs said, fingering a map with at least twenty red circles scratched into its surface, cities and countries alike. He surprised both himself and his company with a laugh that floated up suddenly from his gut. "We both know something of that."

Wufei didn't miss a beat, taking the map from Zech's hands, tracing lines between the red markings. "Their influence has penetrated the media and government offices on L2, so most of their activity has remained low-profile. Their main goal is to fly under the radar, setting their traps and eliminating any roadblocks secretly. We're trying to do the same. We're unsure if they know we've caught on to their activities, but what we do know is that their influence is substantial. They've secured separate divisions of L2 hospitals with physicians and doctors paid by the Protectors for only their use and care. No doubt they're also using these hospitals as localized checkpoints. The same for corporate factories and offices across the colony. They're gaining followers and supporters without exposing themselves to the public. " Wufei pulled out a letter, unmarked on the outside.

"I was first contacted by Heero Yuy six months before that day on L2. He said that he had gone undercover and was considered among the Protectors' top ranks."

"An ex-Gundam pilot—a seemingly perfect weapon for the colonies to use against Earth." Zechs fingered the letter in Heero's stark, sharp scrawls.

"Precisely. Heero said his intentions were to infiltrate and then take control and seize activities internally, and then call upon the Preventers and other authorities for back-up."

Zechs looked up from the letter, forehead forming the two creases between his eyes that he had seen in the mirror for as long as he could remember. "Pilot 01. Heero Yuy. Asking for back-up."

Wufei smiled in a way that indicated anything but comfort. "Not in this lifetime. I believe we've all changed in this years; after all, only a fool thinks their job is done after the war."

"Heero Yuy intended to always be a soldier," Zechs stated. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Wufei, who refused with a curt turn of the head. "How large would you say is their manpower?"

"Bigger than you'd expect for something entirely underground. They outnumber the Preventers at least three-fold."

Zechs put the letter aside, fingers running over the edges of blurry photos, most of Heero Yuy. The boy still looked sixteen. Attached to the photos were sticky notes, words scribbled on napkins. Personal surveillance. "Considering the damage done by the independent actions of five colony teenagers, there could be a threat on the horizon."

A small smile tugged at Wufei's lip—Zechs blinked, and it was just a small memory.

"I got as close to Heero as I could get to monitor his activity. For the most part, he stayed true to his word—remaining close to the action, but never seemingly a direct part of it. I'm sure the Protectors were protecting their prized knight."

"How did he earn their trust, considering his ties with Relena?"

Wufei stood and paced the room. Although the room was large and spacious, the empty quiet was what protected them. Made it hard to breathe. "That, I don't know. But I can say with a degree of certainty that It had to do with something on that day."

Zechs exhaled softly, three ribbons of smoke reaching towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes. The knuckles of his two fingers dug into his eye sockets. "What was Trowa's involvement in this?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his misstep. Wufei's silence made his stomach swell into his throat. He had to give the kid credit—although he was certain Wufei was feeling substantially smug, the kid had paused only a fraction of time in his pace before continuing like Zechs hadn't just exposed his weakness.

"It is unlikely that he participated in their cause. I know that the two of them were…close." Wufei coughed. "Trowa Barton and Heero Yuy had been sharing living quarters for three years when I received that first call from Heero. No doubt Trowa knew of the Protectors' existence, but whether or not he chose to act or participate on that knowledge, we could never find out. Heero never mentioned Trowa's involvement, and if Trowa took an active role in their activities, I'm positive that either Sally or myself would have detected it."

He stopped pacing, turned his head to the ground. "I hadn't—_none_ of us —had spoken to Trowa in five years. He didn't want to be found." He pulled an ashtray from the beside table, and held it out to Zechs. "At least, not by one of _us_."

Zechs looked up into Wufei's two dark eyes, fixed on him with a heavy air of suspicion. He did not back down, although his heart beat very quickly, four times faster than usual. He tightened his jaw. Couldn't fail now.

He butted out his cigarette and stood quickly. Smoothed out a wrinkle in his pants. "What happened that day on L2?"

"Like I reported: nothing out of the ordinary. We knew the Protectors were present, but we did our job, set up checkpoints, no one was harmed. We confirmed that Heero wasn't present, and noted a shift in his recent pattern. We left." He sat the ashtray down on the table and began to walk towards the exit of the dormitory. "Obviously, we don't have any more patterns to look for. Monitoring the future movement of the Protectors will be difficult, but manageable."

Zechs nodded once in Wufei's general direction. "Thank you for your time. Relena finds comfort in knowledge."

"Perhaps she can form conclusions that we haven't," he answered with a small taste of spite. "If you ask me, there have been only two people I have ever known in my whole life who did nothing but produce one unanswerable question after another. One of them was Heero Yuy. The other was Treize Khushrenada."

Zechs' skin was clammy and uncomfortable. Throat was dry. "Treize is a different conversation, for a different day."

They stopped in front of the doorway, their voices low but with great intention, like tremors before a quake.

"I see," Wufei began. "I'd like you to find me on that day."

"I'm afraid I can't offer you any insight in regards to Treize. At least, not the answers you seek. He was a private man."

Wufei sneered. "You both were."

Zechs turned to leave before he felt Wufei grab his shoulder firmly. He looked to him, but his gaze was not returned. Although his four fingers dug sharply into his shoulder, Wufei looked off into the empty space like he was just a leisurely passerby. "Trowa is with Quatre on L4."

The blonde nodded, noting the sick feeling in his stomach and choosing to ignore it. "Good-bye. And, congratulations."

He exited the dormitory, the image of Wufei's distant stare and the silver band around his left ring finger a lasting memory, like when he stared into the sun for too long and before he knew it, violet splotches clouded his vision. He took the stairs three at a time. He counted.

* * *

That night, Zechs dreamt of Treize.

The night of OZ graduation, Treize was nowhere to be found. High donors and government officials ground their teeth wordlessly as each newly enlisted soldier asked about and praised their prized king. Zechs' eyes shifted behind his mask, noting without surprise how, when champagne began to flow, all betrayals and discreprencies were forgotten for the chance to bestow wisdom upon young, malleable minds. Manipulation and bribery were already undertones of conversation taking place underneath crystal chandeliers.

That summer was humid and never-ending, and Zechs stepped outside, leaving his untouched glass of champagne on the side table before exiting the ballroom. He adjusted his mask and began walking.

When he arrived at Treize's residence, he made his way up to the master bedroom, where he could smell the bath salts. Moisture in the air. He took off his mask and as he ascended the stairs, he briefly looked out the large windows that framed the staircase into the night, lit up like a Christmas tree. The view wasn't bad, but he'd seen the world from the perspective of a mobile suit. It was all no longer so picturesque.

He walked in without knocking, discarding his dress jacket on the bathroom counter. Treize was facing away from him, head resting against the side of the bathtub, an arm slung over the side. Treize didn't flinch when he heard Zechs' footsteps echo against the bathroom walls.

"Above all the glamour and small talk tonight?" Treize began. The lilt of his voice wrapped around Zechs throat. Took him a minute to breathe.

"I believe that it's actually above _me_." Zechs turned and rested his back against the counter. Treize, in all his stature and status was actually not as complicated of a man as everyone believed. He still perspired. He got exhausted, like everyone else. He took baths.

Zechs lit a cigarette and cracked the window of the bathroom open. Steam quickly evaporated and Treize raised an eyebrow as he slid further into the water, capturing the heat.

"You know, those things will kill you," Treize remarked. They made eye contact for the first time that night; Zechs was certain Treize could see through his mask, among other things.

He exhaled smoke, smiling awkwardly. Like the expression didn't quite fit on his face the way it should. "I think the fact that you are here next to me already puts my mortality in serious jeopardy, Treize."

Treize chuckled a bit, in that aristocrat manner that grated on Zechs' bones. He turned to him, motioning for him to approach. Zechs hesitated before walking over, leaning on the side of the tub. Treize's hand emerged from the water and laid across Zechs' thigh, the wet and the heat making him recoil at first. He was, indeed, a private man.

"Do you feel guilty, Zechs?" Treize asked him, the words lifting off his tongue with minimal effort, striking Zechs in the chest with each sharp syllable.

"These men signed up for a war," he said, speaking softly but his words echoed within his mask. Inside his head. He left his cigarette against the ashtray next to the tub. "I will give it to them."

"What is it you want, Zechs?" Treize asked. Zechs could see moisture on his lips, and he cleared his throat.

"You know damn well what I want," he said, his attempt to be firm thwarted by blue eyes and the overpowering smell of roses.

"Tell me," Treize repeated. "And I will give it to you."

Zechs' skin was hot, even when Treize ripped his mask from his face and exposed him to the humid air. Made his eyes tear. There was no time to think as he was dragged into the bathtub, the sound of the splash deafening against the quiet of their kiss.

His clothes were heavy, stuck to him. Felt like drowning. The edge of the tub scraped his spine as Treize pushed his shoulders back, hard. Their breaths were short and full. They attempted to not breathe through their mouths, which dared to open once or twice to create sounds that were lost the moment they appeared.

"I want you," Treize said through his teeth, into the angle of Zechs' cheekbone. The declaration was electric all the way down to where Treize ground his knee into the space between his legs.

Zechs stretched as his clothes were peeled off, each hitting the floor tiles with a satisfying smack. His hair strung across his face. His eyes were always closed.

He felt a tongue swipe across his jawline. Treize's hands were always deliberate, ripping away at his clothes, pressing against his cock, clawing at his back, pulling him in. They didn't know how to be tender.

In their frenzy, the bathtub plug was pulled, chain caught on a foot. As the water depleted, they remained wet and hot. Sweat and muscle and heat. Their bones rattled against the marble of the tub.

"Go on, then," Zechs said in barely a whisper. He spread his legs, lifted his pelvis. He was never embarrassed; he didn't know how he could be when the feeling of Treize stroking his cock was so fucking good.

Treize squeezed the base, slowly dragged his tongue across a nipple. Zechs fixed his eyes upon the one hand that gripped the edge of the tub; if he looked down, he feared his mind would cloud. Too much to bear. He felt Treize hovering over him, breath on his cheek. Intense heat.

Suddenly there was shooting pain, ripping through his abdomen. Heard himself spit curses. Hands, those strong hands were around his face, pressing into his temples, the back of his head. Pulling his hair. His cock was hard against his stomach the second he felt Treize enter him, thighs pressed to his ass. He used his legs to pull him in, and forced him start thrusting. They didn't know how to go slow.

"God—_fuck_—Zechs," Treize cursed, barely audible above the sound of flesh on flesh, muscles straining and ready to snap. Zechs met each pounding thrust, reaching between them to jerk himself. He needed release. He clawed at the back of his knees.

Eyes closed, his mind was sharp, even though the haze of whatever this thing was that was them, he and Treize, was thicker than the summer air. Felt his muscles contracting, releasing, working overtime, asshole stretching, toes curling. He felt the weight of Treize on top of him, and it turned him on _so_ _fucking much_.

He let out a moan, knowing how it affected Treize, and how he would shudder silently, strengthen his resolve. He would look down between them and watch his cock sliding in and out of Zechs' body, the body that he had navigated, conquered again and again.

"Again," Treize said, biting down on his shoulder. When Zechs tried to cry out, the force of the thrust stole his voice. He managed a grunt, a desperate sound. He felt his cock swell.

Zechs' head rocked back against the tub as orgasm shot through him, shaking his frame. Treize's thrust became erratic. His knees were burning. This, this moment. Yes. Yes.

Treize came inside him, soundlessly. Time seemed to stop. Zechs opened his eyes. His chest tightened for one small moment. Treize collapsed on top of him, a heap of oxygen, come, and sweat. The tub was cold against his forehead, and never had he been more grateful.

Later that night, they had migrated to the bed, Zechs' clothes hung to dry along the rim of the bathtub. Treize lay on his stomach, one arm serving as a pillow, the other stretched out next to him. Zechs sat upright, eyes closing involuntarily. The days were so long.

"These men are desperate, Zechs," Treize mumbled into the bedsheets. "Desperate to hold onto something they believe in. They will follow OZ until the day they die."

"Not necessarily. But," Zechs added, with a hint of sadness so bitter and small that not even the great strategist, Treize Khusrenada, could predict or detect it. "They will indeed follow _you_."

* * *

Zechs woke up at 7:32 the next morning. Panic lept into his chest. He sat up and realized that in the thirty-two minutes he was off-schedule, the world wasn't altered or changed in any real way.

He felt moisture on his cheek, and wiped it away with the back of his hand. He spent exactly three seconds thinking about why it had been there before he took ten steps into his closet. Three shirts. Two pairs of pants.

The shuttles to L4 were small, and he had to pack light.

_

* * *

-tbc-_

_Thank you for reading--please review if you have the time!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** A Purpose for Numbers (3/?)**  
Author:** alifestylechoice   
**Fandom:** Gundam Wing (3x6, 13x6, a little 1x3, 6x9, others)   
**Rating:** R (Sexin', Angstin', Angsty Sexin'…)  
**Words:** 5,520  
**Summary:** "You're not dead, like you wanted to be."

_A/N: Thank you, for your patience with me on this one. This fic is an experiment for me, too. :) This part's pretty meaty, so I hope you can accept it as an apology for having to wait to so long._

_I hope you enjoy. _

* * *

**A Purpose for Numbers**_  
Part Three_

"You know, you were my date tonight, Zechs."

The overhead lights turned back on and Zechs stretched above him to reach for his carry-on, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear.

"I'm sure you can wrangle the son of some political official to fill the position for one night," Zechs mused, checking the pocket in front of his seat for anything he might have forgotten before shuffling down the aisle towards the open shuttle doors. He nodded his thanks to the two attendants before taking his first step out onto L4. Colony air was still stale. Like breathing copper.

The jetway was long and narrow, and lined with forty-two fluorescent bulbs—Zechs counted them in his head as he continued his conversation with his sister. Everybody looked green and alien in the false light.

"I think I'll attend alone," Relena said with a sigh, fatigue and worry heavy in her voice. "Or maybe I'll just stay at home. I just want to be alone, Zechs."

He shifted the carry-on bag on his shoulder from one to the other, juggling the phone in the process. Through the two doors ahead, he saw numerous flashing lights and knew his ride would be waiting for him.

"You chose a life of public image, Relena," Zechs lightly reminded her. "Although, I'm about to get some attention myself, seeing who I'm with."

"You've never been one for the limelight. I'm sorry I couldn't go in your stead."

"I know how badly you want answers. I'm just doing my brotherly duties."

"Ah, is that so?" He heard the wicked smile on her face. "Be careful, Zechs. And, thank you."

Zechs felt a small smile tugging at his lips as he hung up the phone, sliding it into his pocket before taking three deep breaths and exiting the jetway. He made eye contact with Rashid, who nodded in greeting. They walked quickly together along with two other escorts tailing them, followed by, on Zech's count, five to seven members of the public media.

"Good morning, Mr. Merquise," greeted Rashid. His stride was difficult for even Zechs to keep up with.

"Good to see you again, Rashid," Zechs said. "Just call me Zechs."

"Ah, it's after the war, then," Rashid said, letting out an unexpected hearty laugh. "Didn't think formalities disappeared with those Gundams, sir!"

Zechs couldn't help but smile. "No, I guess not."

They approached the doors to the passenger waiting area, but Rashid cut right and evaded the oncoming slew of camera crews and reporters to a door off to one abandoned corner, guarded by two public officers. They nodded when they saw Rashid, stepping aside and allowing them to pass.

The door opened up into a private garage warehouse where Quatre awaited them, hunched over his phone and tic-tic-ing away at the buttons. He wore a dress shirt, one side untucked, and was missing two buttons—one on the collar, one on a cuff. His eyes were marked by two dark circles but he looked up and greeted Zechs with a genuine smile.

"Hello, Zechs," he said, sliding his phone closed with a snap and pocketing it. "It's been some time now. You look great—same as ever."

They shook hands—firmer than what Zechs had anticipated—and he turned to the security guard that took his coat. "I'll take that as a compliment. It's good to see you again. Your entourage is impressive."

Quatre scratched the back of his head, peering at the limousine and his bodyguards who stood in attendance. "Yeah." He motioned to Rashid who opened the door to the backseat for them, and they stepped into the car.

"I've tried to stay out of the cameras, but everybody knows who Rashid is by now, who my bodyguards are. I know I should have expected all this, but it does get rather tiresome. I mean, I don't think I'm all that interesting, to be honest." He laughed nervously, and the car door was shut.

"No worries—you have much in common with my sister." Zechs sat casually in the backseat—when your sister was Relena Peacecraft, these travel arrangements were far from unordinary—and fingered the seams of the leather seats. He counted the stitches as his knuckle ran over them.

"Ah, Relena." Quatre's voice changed slightly and he sat back in his seat across from Zechs, looking quite uncomfortable to Zechs' eyes. Like he was trying to appear relaxed, but his shoulders were up to his chin. Tense. "How is she?"

Zechs took a deep breath, fingers going twenty-one, twenty-two. Frayed stitch. Twenty-three, twenty-four. "She's the same, in many ways. She thinks of the pilots as her brothers. Some, a little more."

Quatre nodded firmly, eyes casting down. "I'm assuming you've come here to talk about Heero."

Thirty-seven, thirty-eight. "Any information would be appreciated. I know you've been very busy here on L4, and I'm not assuming that you know anything at all. But, the circumstances are a bit strange, and Relena hasn't been able to get the answers she needs." He tore his hand away from the stitching reluctantly and shoved it in his pockets. He leaned forward, trapping his hand. Like a restless child. "When my sister wants answers, Quatre, she's fairly stubborn in her means to go about getting them. What I find odd is how the ex-Gundam pilots have been fairly quiet about what's happened to 01."

"Relena contacted me right away," Quatre said quickly. "I volunteered to have my people perform an autopsy. L4 has the best doctors and medicinal—"

"Autopsy was inconclusive," Zechs interrupted. "Body appeared unharmed, no signs of struggle."

Quatre made a definitive noise in the back of his throat. "I guess we've both read the report more than a few times. I'm not sure what else to tell you about that, Zechs."

"Any and all information you have about Heero Yuy," Zechs said. "I thought I knew who he was, to some extent. It seems that I've learned more about him in the past week than I have in the past six years."

Quatre looked up for the first time since the topic had been breached. A single strand of hair hung in his face, between two furrowed brows. "I arranged for a private table at the Leeswater Hotel. We'll have brunch."

* * *

Apart from the somewhat more realistic point of view, Quatre Raberba Winner was much like Zechs remembered him. Blonde hair, small in stature, big personality. The years following the war had most likely been difficult for Quatre because, unlike his counterparts, he was destined to be scrutinized by the public eye. Anxiety was a given. However, the ex-pilot 04 spoke candidly, with great enthusiasm, but never out of turn.

"I hadn't spoken to Heero in years," Quatre admitted over their brunch. They were both quite hungry, and their bread basket was refilled three times before their small talk had evolved into the meat of the matter. "He made it fairly clear that it would be difficult to be friends, you know, me being in the cameras and around people all the time, and he would have nothing of that, if he could help it."

Zechs poured them both a fresh cup of tea from the kettle on the table. "I'm sure a well-connected man like yourself had some sources."

Quatre nodded. "Well, of course, I had Trowa."

No tea was spilt, to Zech's relief, and he cursed himself. A narrow miss. "You were close with 03."

"Yes. I had always felt a special connection to Trowa during the war, and we had talked on a fairly regular basis. As a matter of fact, he's at my estate right now."

"Really, now," Zechs said, feigning surprise.

Quatre laughed a little. Nervous. "Come off it, Zechs. Trowa told me he'd been to see you." Quatre reached for a bagel and a knife. "I'm certain you're not here to just have lunch with me and talk about the 'old days'."

Zechs chuckled a little. His insides searched frantically for meaning. "Full of surprises. Why isn't Trowa here with us? Not a fan of tea and bagels?"

Quatre paused in his actions, placing the knife back down on the table. "Trowa and I are good friends. I'd go as far to say, my only good friend."

Leaning in closer, Zechs knew the intention of this conversation was, above all, secrecy. Why Quatre had decided he was to be his confidante was a little questionable, but he'd rather seize the opportunity than continue further in the dark. "I understand."

Zechs ate in silence for a total of eight minutes, making little to no sound and giving no sign of expectation to the man seated across from him, who collected his thoughts carefully.

"I know you remember the feeling," Quatre began. "Of the ZERO system."

Putting down his fork, Zechs pressed his napkin to his mouth and closed his eyes. He felt sick. "Yes."

Quatre sat back, his gaze fixed upon Zechs with a wound-up tightness, prepared to zero in on any sign of treachery or mockery. These waters were dangerous, and they both flirted with the surface on occasion—they both mentally prepared themselves to jump in, head first. Zechs ran his thumb along the prongs of the fork over and over again. One, two, three, four. One, two, three—

"I woke up and my whole body ached. I couldn't move, or think, or breathe. Everything hurt. Everything was out of focus, and moved too fast. I couldn't deal with how out of control I was in my own body. I had gone crazy."

"You weren't crazy," Zechs said. "It was the ZERO system." He closed his eyes and vague memories of rage and darkness flashed behind his lids.

"In those moments, I was crazy." He took a sip of tea before continuing. His hand shook slightly, once, twice, before he firmly planted it on the table. So damn tense. "I was fortunate in my life to be allowed to make my own choices. I was forced to grow up quickly. My sisters needed me. When they were in pieces, I picked them up. I was calm. I was a straight line. I think what was so terrifying about the ZERO system was that you had no self-control. Like your body was making choices without your consent. I had to betray myself."

Quatre paused, folding and refolding the napkin in his lap four times before continuing. "Trowa phoned me six months before to talk to me. He was worried about Heero, I could tell. I tried to get him to tell me what was wrong, but he kept avoiding the subject. He was talking in circles, he was fidgeting, kept trying to keep his hands busy. It wasn't like him at all. All I could think of when I was talking about him was that day, that horrible day when—"

"When you lost control," Zechs finished. "The ZERO system."

Quatre nodded quickly. "Yes. I could tell something was preoccupying him, was like, taking over his self. I could tell it had something to do with Heero. We hung up, and I felt uneasy. I ended up calling Duo Maxwell."

"02," Zechs mumbled to himself. He noted that the boy with the braid had also been MIA upon Heero's death.

"If—if you've gotten this far, I'm sure you know what's happening on L2," Quatre said slowly.

Zechs nodded once. "The Protectors."

"Duo says they've managed to stay out of the media, but are recruiting in the underground completely. He said that things have been remarkably quiet on the streets. The government on L2 is seeing it as a turn for the better. Duo—and I'm sure you do, too—thinks otherwise."

"There's always a calm before the storm," Zechs stated. He patted the cigarettes in his jacket pocket once, asking Quatre permission with his eyes. Quatre nodded, and continued while Zechs lit a match from the book on the table.

"Actually, surprisingly, Duo has stayed out of all this mess. He's more reclusive than anyone. Hilde says he works out of a garage he built next to the house, goes there at five in the morning, comes back at six for dinner. Doesn't seem to want much to do in a world without Gundams."

Zechs exhaled, nodding with understanding. Mobile suits were more than just a weapon.

"Anyway, Duo told me all that he knew about the Protectors, but that he was intending to stay out of it as much as he could. There was a rumor that Heero was involved, which meant that Duo definitely wanted to turn a blind eye.

Zechs' brow creased. "Wouldn't he want to keep an eye on his comrade, if there was any suspicious activity like that?"

"Duo wanted to remember Heero as a friend, a sort of brother-of-arms. We were all destined to grow up. We were all destined to change, sometimes for the better, and sometimes not. As you know, Duo is a straightforward person. People could choose to be in his life, or not. Heero hadn't contacted Duo—or any of us, with the exception of Trowa—since the end of the war. He figured that if Heero didn't want anything to do with him, he didn't want anything to do with Heero either. Out of sight, out of mind, he'd say."

"I understand," Zechs said, when, really, he didn't at all.

"At this point, everyone knew that Heero and Trowa were partners. If Heero was involved with the Protectors, there was a good chance that Trowa was too, or at least, knew a good deal about them. I tried to get in contact with him again, but he never returned my calls. I called him several times after I had heard the news about Heero; I even flew out to L1 to see if I could find him, or talk to him. I mean—this is horrible to say—but I didn't even know if he was _alive_."

Zechs observed the slight tremors in Quatre's voice, the quiet vibration of the floor as Quatre's leg shook uncontrollably. Made him anxious. He was not a tender human being. He closed his eyes to feign deep concentration, when in fact the boy's struggle was visceral and painful to watch.

"The next time I saw Trowa was two days ago when he showed up at my estate. Imagine how I felt when Rashid told me that Trowa Barton was here to see me."

This, Zechs could understand. "You were scared, though," he said softly, putting out his cigarette in the tabletop ashtray.

"Of course," Quatre confirmed. "But, I was just happy he was alive. The last time I saw him, he was a wreck. He looked crazy, like I said. I asked Rashid how he looked and he said he looked…fine."

Zechs put his hands back in his pockets and regarded Quatre with an air of disbelief. "He looked…fine?"

"Yes. I went downstairs to greet Trowa and he was, for lack of better words…Trowa. Normal. Like it was just an ordinary day, and we were ordinary friends who had fought an ordinary war together. We went to see a movie; we went to dinner. He says he's in town for a couple of days. Says that he spent a couple of days with you, too."

"A couple of days? I guess he's right, if a 'couple of days' means _eight months_," Zechs spat out before he could control himself.

He looked up at Quatre who stared at him in disbelief for less than a second, but Zechs saw it, and was sure he heard the boy's chest snap.

"Well, like—like I said, he's been here and he hasn't seemed upset or troubled or anything like that," Quatre said quickly. Zechs took into account that people like Quatre must learn to recover in an instant. Image is everything. "It's been rather pleasant having him around."

"Have you spoken to him about Heero?"

"Yes, of course—a rather big elephant in the room. He says that he was upset, of course, but that he has to move on. That, like the war, Heero was dead and he needs to continue living his life. So, he said he's been spending time with everyone, catching up."

Zechs thought better than to make comment. "Hm," he said neutrally.

"Naturally, I don't believe him," Quatre said, sounding more and more tired as he spoke. "Something's wrong. Whenever I try to ask him more questions, he just tells me everything's fine." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I don't know what's going on with him, but he obviously feels some sort of connection to you. I don't know what that is and, I don't really think it's my business. But, I do want him to be okay. Maybe you could talk to him."

Zechs sat forward, but avoided eye contact. This was out of his comfort zone; the air was rigid. "Well, he's not exactly what I'd call 'verbose.' But, he also doesn't withhold everything. He talks when he wants to."

Quatre sighed and motioned to the waiter for their check. "He doesn't want to talk to me."

* * *

When they returned to the Winner estate, they were indeed greeted by Trowa Barton, who wore a smile on his face that Zechs had never seen in his life and certainly not in the eight months the boy had stayed with him on Earth. It looked unfamiliar and wrong, but Zechs was willing to play this game. He didn't like to rush things.

Night fell and the air was crisp outside as Zechs stepped out to have a cigarette. Quatre was inside with Trowa, laughing and building a fire in the large hearth. Zechs thought it a bit silly to light fires when the air temperature was as regulated in the house as it was outside, but he also could understand the value of sentiments. Emotions overrode logic everyday.

The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to come together, and never in his life would he ever thought he would be investigating the death of a Gundam pilot, and asking the other pilots for assistance. He had never asked for help in his life; he learned from an early age of a bullied academy life and organizations with foundations in corruption and public deceit that trust was something he had to hold on to. Sheild it, protect it, never give it out.

However, no one asked Zechs Merquise for help with the exception of his sister. He wondered for a moment if there were ever any unspoken requests of him, and realized it was rather useless to think about—during his run of life as a soldier, his intentions and actions were all self-fulfilling and solitary. There was only room for Treize, and even then, it just fit.

"Are you coming? Want a drink?" came Quatre's voice from the door, breaking Zechs from his thoughts.

Zechs turned and nodded, flicking the rest of his cigarette from the balcony. "Sure. A bourbon or a whiskey, on ice."

He followed Quatre into the sitting room where Trowa was already half-lying on a plush couch. The light played across his face and Zechs thought he saw a glimpse of the boy that stood naked in his room in the middle of the night eight months ago. Trowa turned and looked up at him with a glimmer of something strange and unfamiliar in his eye. It made Zechs sweat.

"Zechs, I'm happy you could make it out here," Trowa said, taking a sip of wine. He sat with one leg thrown over the arm of the couch, one elbow on the seat-cushion. Part of his shirt fell over his shoulder slightly. Zechs swallowed.

"It's been so nice having visitors," Quatre said while entering the room with two whiskeys, handing one off to Zechs who nodded in thanks. "I can't remember the last time I sat in this room, let alone with friends."

"I can't say it's not a little strange," noted Zechs, taking two small sips. It tasted good tonight.

"We can put history aside," said Trowa, eyes gazing into the fire. He closed his eyes. Zechs was staring and didn't realize it until he caught himself counting the man's eyelashes as Quatre remembered his past out loud, lips loose.

"…and when we'd sit across from each other in total silence, working on our Gundams and it'd be hours before we'd speak to one another," Quatre continued on, the glass in his hand getting lighter and lighter. "And it used to drive Duo nuts! All the quiet was too much for him, then." He smiled, feet up on the edge of the couch, remembering war like an old friend.

Trowa gave a small laugh, craning his head to address Quatre. "And when he tried all day to get a word out of Heero, and Heero just gave him all these one-word answers. 'Yeah.' 'Alright.' 'Hn.'"

"And finally, Heero goes, 'hey!'" Quatre smiles bashfully in Zechs' direction. "Duo was too shocked to move. Heero was talking! And he said—"

"'Is it time to eat yet?'" Trowa finished, his deadpan mockery of Heero sending the two ex-Gundam pilots into nostalgic laughter, the kind tangled in sweet sadness. Trowa playfully hit his hand against Quatre's shoulder, letting it slide lazily down his arm. Zechs tried to smile, but it was too hard when he was so occupied with the way Trowa's hand lingered on Quatre's arm like that. If it lay there one more second, he would—

"Well, maybe we should talk about something else…" Quatre said after his fits of laughter subsided. Trowa's smile remained, and he took a sip of his drink before making eye contact with Zechs.

"Ah, I'm sorry I've excluded company," Trowa apologized, eyes a bit glassy. "I'm sure you have some stories to share, Zechs."

"To be honest, I don't remember much of it that wasn't boring or self-indulgent," Zechs attempted to laugh it off. His hand not holding his drink twitched twice.

"Not even about Treize Khushrenada?"

Trowa's eyes shifted and their eye contact swung from hot to cold, even by the heat of the fire that cracked loudly in the following silence. Zechs cleared his throat twice and adjusted his body posture. Sat straight, stomach in. Glass on the side table, ten fingers gripping the arm rests.

"What would you like to know?" Zechs asked calmly.

Quatre's eyes moved back and forth quickly between the two men silently challenging each other in his living room. "I think we all have things that we don't want to talk about—"

"What do you remember about Treize?" Trowa interrupted, his voice even but not threatening.

Zechs relaxed his posture, closed his eyes, and saw Treize as he last left him, in the battlefield where they both had swore they'd die. He remembered feeling somewhat serene. Death was an expectation and living was a burden, in those times. He remembered the smell of dead bodies and sulfur and the demands of a fifteen-year-old boy screaming over and over again, _Why did he drop his weapon? Why did he not fight me back!? _ He remembered the months that followed in confinement, wishing he was dead, too, wanting it like he wanted water or food or human touch.

"I remember him as my greatest leader, and my greatest friend," he said with finality. He took one last sip of his drink before placing the empty glass on the side table.

Quatre rose slowly, tucking two pieces of hair behind his ear. "Well, I can be the one left out now, heh." He forced a small chuckle.

"Don't go, Quatre," Trowa started, and reached for him, but Quatre was quick and offered a shield in the form of a smile and bow of the head.

"I'm sure you both have a lot to talk about. I'm tired, anyway. I'll see you in the morning." He shot Zechs a pointed look, then retired to the bedroom wing, closing the doors behind him softly. Click, click.

Trowa lifted the glass to his lips. "I didn't mean for him to leave," he said.

Zechs slouched back in his chair a bit. "What exactly _do_ you mean, Trowa?"

Trowa swallowed and let out a small sigh. His tongue darted out to taste his top lip. Zechs' face burned. "You have a sad story, with no ending." He pushed off the arm of the couch and fell onto his back against the soft cushions.

"There was an ending," Zechs said. Throat was dry. "Treize is dead."

Trowa gazed at the ceiling. "You had something. Some _thing_ with Treize Khusrenada. And it just…stopped. Didn't have an ending. You're not dead, like you wanted to be. It still continues."

Anger and anguish bubbled in the pit of Zech's stomach. He wanted to throttle Trowa, like he was a kid. Like he was an ordinary kid that wasn't right. Could never be right. "Treize isn't coming back to life."

"Neither is Heero," Trowa whispered to the air. Zechs noted that this was the first time the other man had mentioned his dead lover, and the similarities between the two were as alarmingly apparent as ever. Something seemed strange, though—the way he was intensely calm, almost flippant, when the image of his broken body at his doorstep was still fresh in Zech's mind.

"I have to move on," Trowa continued. "I'll get lost in my head. Pain follows loss in the form of routines. Patterns. Like how you count things."

Zechs closed his eyes and chuckled once. The boy was grown-up.

Trowa turned his head towards Zechs, who stood and poured himself another drink. Straight. "Why do you count things?" he asked.

In one quick movement, Zechs downed his drink and held his forearm to his face to ease the burn. He was tired. He looked down at Trowa, who had an arm slung behind his head; his shirt lifted a bit at the bottom hem to reveal part of his stomach. Zechs kept his eyes on the boy so he wouldn't close his eyes and see the image of roses and blue eyes in his mind. He walked closer and knelt in front of Trowa, who remained still as stone until Zechs laid a single hand on his stomach, causing him to shudder involuntarily.

Zechs' mind was fuzzy the way he hadn't enjoyed in some time, and he ran his thumbs over lean hip bones and a taut stomach, enjoying the warmth of Trowa's skin and the freedom of wanting.

He breathed Trowa in, losing eye contact at some point to note the six buttons on the boy's shirt, the scar that ran across three knuckles, and his two lips that were open slightly. His tongue darted out once more. It was paralyzing.

"When you count," said Zechs, reaching up to Trowa's face to cup an angled cheek. "There's always an end."

* * *

When Zechs awoke on the couch, the fire had already died out and Trowa was gone. He felt something soft and heavy cover his face and he opened his eyes, bunching the towel in his hand. He removed it from his face and squinted to adjust to the morning light that painted the room in yellow hues. He heard Quatre chuckling from behind him.

"You're good at getting him to leave," Quatre observed with a grin, pitter-pattering across the room to open more of the curtains.

Zechs sat up and took notice of his unbuttoned pants. Covering himself with a blanket he looked up to greet Quatre, who threw Zech's shirt onto his face.

"The bath is down the hall, third door on the right." Quatre bent over and collected the empty glasses from the night before.

"Wh—where…?" Zechs trailed, holding onto the towel for dear life.

"Back to L1, I'm guessing." Quatre began to hum as he took the empty glasses into the bar area.

Zechs sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the sound of Quatre scrubbing the glasses and rinsing them clean, the small "ding"s and "clink"s like music in a cathedral. The high ceilings and ancient architecture wove the sounds into the morning. He didn't know how, but things were becoming more and more clear, even if he didn't know all the answers. He looked back at Quatre, who shut off the faucet and reached for a hand towel.

"Thank you, Quatre," Zechs said quietly, but meaningfully. They made eye contact, and Quatre nodded with a bittersweet smile. They both knew what loneliness was.

* * *

"You look like hell," Noin greeted him back on Earth.

Zechs narrowed his eyes and feigned disappointment. "Ah, and here I was waiting for a beautiful reunion of two old friends."

She placed the back of one hand to his cheek. "You're a little hot."

Zechs rolled his eyes. "Please, Noin, no sweet talk in public. I'm a private man."

She made a face before walking towards the exit, expecting him to follow. He smiled before catching up to her pace—she had had a long stride since the academy. Two steps to his one, but fast-moving. Powerful.

"How was your flight?" she asked, and just like that, it was back to normal.

"Didn't get much sleep," Zechs murmured. He felt natural light on his face for the first time in a few days, and it was refreshing. "Quatre Raberba Winner has a busy schedule; it was hard to keep up with him sometimes."

"With a sister like Relena, I thought you'd be used to the public life by now."

"I don't think anyone can ever get used to it. The only people who deserve to be that famous, in my opinion, are already dead."

"You're quite morbid this morning, Zechs. Would some fresh air do you some good? I brought the bike."

He snaked an arm around her neck and they were seventeen again. "You know me well, Noin."

After their ride home, filled with numerous unrequited touches and her irregular heartbeats, she turned off her bike and he invited her inside. She accepted too quickly, looked uncomfortable in her clothes that weren't a uniform. His eyes raked over her body, and she sensed his stare, crossed her arms over her chest. Twice.

"I'll hang your coat up," he said, taking it from her hands before she could protest. He bypassed the hook and grabs a hanger.

"Thanks," Noin said softly, looking around the apartment. "It's changed a little since I was here last."

"Well, I certainly hope it's cleaner." Zechs shrugged off his coat and hung it on one of the two hooks. "You want coffee?"

"Sure." She spoke casually, but the tremor of her hand betrayed her. Her eyes were cast down but followed his every move. He felt her stare as he put the kettle on.

"You want to ask me something," he said to her, pouring out coffee beans into the grinder, slowly. He closed his eyes, so he wouldn't count them.

Noin crossed her legs and leaned over the counter. "I hear that you're sleeping with the Barton boy."

He activated the coffee grinder. Time to think. Intentions were muddied just about everywhere these days. The grinder stopped and he looked over his shoulder.

"I'm glad Relena still tells grand stories of me, years later. Although, I wish she'd make up something like how I defeated OZ on a horse. In space."

Noin raised an eyebrow. "So, you're not."

"No, I'm not," said Zechs. He took the milk out of the refrigerator and walked over to where Noin stood. He stood too close on purpose. His hand fell on her lower back, and the air was electric.

"Somehow, I don't believe you," said Noin, a little forcefully.

She had been expecting this, but her hopes climbed higher each time he touched her—he knew this and still continued. He was an ugly human being.

"You let him stay with you for eight months," she tried again. "You're telling me you guys just put on your pajamas and did each others' hair and nails?"

"Jealous?" he teased. "His hair's long enough now to make pigtails." He pulld at one of the short hairs on the back of her neck, and she faked pain as he retrieved the screaming kettle, pouring it slowly into the press.

"Just be careful. Something's just…off about that boy."

"Hm?" Zechs kept his back to her. Coffee grounds were never so interesting.

"Ever since he lost his memories." She closed her eyes and searched the back of her mind. "He's too quiet. A lot changes in five years, Zechs."

He silently poured her a cup of coffee and when she opened her eyes to the aroma, he kissed her softly on the lips. "Not everything. Treize is still dead."

* * *

At one-thirty AM, the phone rang and Zechs reacted quickliy, reaching over Noin to answer it.

"Hello?" he said, voice hoarse and sleep-filled. Noin sat up abruptly and covered her naked chest with the blanket.

"Zechs, it's Une. There's been an assassination attempt on Relena. It's bad."

_-tbc-_

_

* * *

_

_Thank you for reading--please review if you have the time!  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** A Purpose for Numbers (4/?)**  
Author:** alifestylechoice  
**Fandom:** Gundam Wing (3x6, 13x6, a little 1x3, 6x9, others)  
**Rating:** R (Language)  
**Words:** 4,990  
**Summary:** "I'm going to die a soldier as well, on the battlefield," Treize said calmly, like he had announced that dinner was to be served.

_A/N: Thanks for sticking with me! I was in something of a slump, but getting back on track with this next chapter. Hopefully, the next (and final!) chapter will also be up soon._

_I hope you enjoy.  


* * *

_

**A Purpose for Numbers**

_Part Four  
_

Zechs took three deep breaths before getting out of the cab-he always refused Relena's escorts-and began to fight his way to the door of the hospital. He held his breath as newscrews and reporters threatened to corner him; the ride to the hospital was long, and news of Relena's condition cut his tolerance short.

"Zechs Merquise! What do you know of Relena's association with the Protectors-"

"What was your business on L4? Could the attack have been prevented if you had attended-"

"Does Relena's attack relate to her involvement with the ex-Gundam pilots-"

He barged ahead, his stride strong and eyes focused on the front door, where a dozen security guards began to approach. He nodded his thanks, and their shouts over the crowd were muffled in his ears, which had continued to ring since Une's call in the middle of the night.

"_Preventers reacted quickly after the first gunshot-hit her right in the shoulder. They gassed the area immediately, but we were able to get her to safety and to medical treatment right away. She's at St. Lourdes, the best doctors, but she lost a lot of blood. _

After a two minute exchange with the nurse, Zechs bypassed the elevator, and took the stairs three at a time. Une and Wufei stood outside room 418; Wufei straightened his back upon Zechs' arrival. Une leaned against the wall with her head in her hands. She acknowledged Zechs' presence with the clearing of her throat.

"She's sleeping, Zechs," Une said calmly, with a firm tone that stopped Zechs from barreling into the room. Peering in, he could see that the room was divided in two parts by a privacy curtain. The blinds of the room were closed tight, but he could still make out Relena's silhouette in the bed behind the curtain. Her chest ever-so-slightly lifted with each breath, and he finally let go of his. He had been holding it for what seemed like hours.

"What aren't you telling me, Zechs?" Une asked in a foreign tone. Zechs turned to her with the expectation of hostility, but instead, he only saw the fatigue that wracked her body as she struggled for a half-second to stand; no one else would have noticed except for those who knew her closely. The two were something like family in the times of war-the kind of family one would expect to emerge from a war, he supposed. There was common ground in their duality.

Wufei didn't offer his hand to help her, as Zechs would; he knew what pride was. He stiffened when Zechs made eye-contact.

"Did you know of 01's involvement with the Protectors?" Zechs asked directly.

Une took in a long breath. "Not to this extent. Although, I seem to be in the minority." Her eyes shifted to Wufei before fixing on Zechs. "We all care about Relena-that is first and foremost our top priority, her safety. We all need to be on the same page, wouldn't you agree?"

Zechs nodded. "What I know is that Heero went under as a high-ranking official of the Protectors. He was working with them for nearly six months when he sought to prevent an attack on Relena that day on L2."

"So, you're saying he succeeded? And, that's why nothing out-of-the-ordinary took place?"

Zechs exchanged a glance with Wufei. "Well, he may have succeeded then. But, he did end up dead." He leaned into the doorframe so his sister was always in his peripheral vision. "Something happened between now and then that lead up to his death. I think that this event proves that without 01's manipulation, Relena's life is in danger." He paused. "Did the Protectors release a statement?"

Wufei shook his head. "All we know is that their primary objective is the separation of the colonies and Earth. Groups like the Protectors believe that war is their right, and their only way that this separation could be realized."

"And, people like Relena, figureheads of peace, are seen as enemies," Une added.

"Perhaps their objective wasn't to kill Relena, but to use this assassination attempt as an morbid introduction," Zechs murmured, pinching his nose between two fingers. Noin was right-he was running a slight fever. His clothes felt suffocating. "Now the world knows about the Protectors. Their first move in the public's eye was strong. You'll have to be prepared for their next move."

Une sighed. "Did you speak with Trowa Barton about this?"

Zechs swallowed. His skin was on fire under Wufei's glare. "He's not saying too much. Nothing that I haven't told you already. He doesn't deny Heero's involvement with the Protectors, but the extent of what he knows is still uncertain."

"Your sister almost died today," Wufei interrupted. "You need to ask him."

"Quatre called this morning and said you'd been to see him on L4," Une said slowly. A cautionary tone. "He says that Trowa was also at the estate during your visit."

"Yes. He was." Zechs was cornered and his walls were up.

"We have to be on the same page here, Zechs," Une repeated. "What else do you know?"

"I've told you everything I know," he said calmly, his gaze landing on the soft silhouette of Relena in the hospital bed. One breath. Two.

"You mean to tell us that you've shared living quarters with Trowa Barton for eight months, and go off on holiday with him to L4 at Quatre Raberba Winner's, and you barely know _anything?_" Wufei's words cut into the back of his neck.

"Wufei, calm down," Une commanded before Zechs could retort. If he had wanted to. She dismissed him with a nod of her head. Wufei tightened his jaw before glancing at Zechs one last time. He turned away, signaling to the guards at the stairwell's entrance to resume their positions at Relena's doorway.

Une took two steps closer to stand within a whisper's distance of him. She spoke softly, the sound of the Preventers' heavy boots against linoleum almost drowning out her voice. "I want you to think about your sister, and the people who are protecting her. Think about her best interests. They should be yours, too." She stepped away and bowed slightly. He nodded to her, and he entered the room before the soldiers took their place at the door.

He wasn't thinking of himself, which was certainly what Une believed. He was thinking of Treize.

* * *

Zechs paced the room in a frenzy, breaths coming double-time, fogging up the inside of his mask slightly. Treize laid on the bed with the blankets folded down under his arms. His head was wrapped in bandages not two hours old and were already stained with blood.

"_This_ is the best hospital available?" Zechs spat. "You're already bleeding again. I can't believe this place. Where are the doctors-"

"Zechs, stop," Treize said calmly. "You're acting like an old nursemaid. Sit down. It's a head wound. It bleeds sometimes. If you want to be useful, give me that bottle on the side table."

He glanced over at the bottle in question and hesitated. "You're not supposed to take more painkillers for another four hours."

Treize shot him a look. "Zechs, I was just shot in the head. I've done riskier things than take a few pills a couple hours early."

Zechs furrowed his brow and dosed two pills into his hand, passing them over to Treize, who took his hand, brought him closer. He fidgeted as Treize downed the pills. Their close proximity brought mixed emotions. Hard to breathe.

"Take off your mask," he heard him say, as if Treize were reading his mind. Stubbornly, he shook his head, but remained by his side.

"Zechs." Treize turned to him; his brown hair was matted to his forehead in the bandages. "You're not yourself."

"You could have died," he stated simply. The academy had taught him well. "Although, I suppose that if I insist on being your friend, I'd better get used to attempts on your life."

"What is the price on my head these days, do you know?" Treize asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't joke about such things," Zechs mumbled. He was met with laughter that bubbled up from what seemed like out of nowhere. He turned and watched as Treize lifted an arm slightly, pushing the curtain away a couple of inches so the stars-_real_ stars-shined brightly and cast blue-hued shadows across a sliver of his face.

"You're simply too serious, Zechs."

"Glad to see that one of us is in such good spirits."

"Ah, but there are not enough people in good spirits these days, wouldn't you agree?"

Zechs shifted his weight, unsure of the direction this conversation would take. "I'm not sure what you mean, Treize. We're in wartime now."

"A war that we created," Treize said with a smile so sad it caught Zechs by surprise. His stomach sank suddenly. Felt empty. Treize could read him so well, just by the pause of his breath, the tensing of his shoulders-his mask was a defense mechanism that was rendered useless by the OZ hero. "Zechs, chaos is a fragile thing. It's like playing with fire. One minute, you're in control, and the next, you've burnt yourself-or someone you love. It spreads like a vicious disease unless you can contain it."

"But we have control, Treize," he said, a hint of uncertainly staining the tail end of his words.

"The things we know are going to be harder to determine as we continue moving forward. The things that seemed so clear now, here, when we're together and shielded from battle, will become more translucent. War changes people."

"We've been soldiers practically since birth."

Treize smirked a little, looked up at Zechs with heavy lidded eyes. "I'm going to die a soldier as well, on the battlefield," he said calmly, like he had announced that dinner was to be served.

"And, I made a promise to die alongside you," said Zechs. "I intend to keep it."

"What if you can't?"

Zechs turned to him then, a hint of a solemn tone was there; the first of its kind to enter their conversation. "I won't."

Treize stared at him a moment, then returned his gaze to the stars. "We'll be at the very heart of this war, you know. I need you to be by my side. I need you to keep me in check."

Zechs made a scoffing noise. He pulled off his mask, trying not to make a show of it, but felt heavy eyes upon him as he pulled his hair to the side to create a blonde curtain. The moment was intimate enough. "You've never allowed me to restrain you in the past."

He chuckled a little before pulling Zechs's hand away from his hair. Brought them closer. "Zechs, we don't know what will happen in this war. If I stray from what is good-what _we_ believe is good, not anybody else-I need you to do what's necessary to make sure you and the ones we love are safe."

Zechs peered between several strands of hair. "You have always had the authority on what's right and wrong," he said, searching Treize's face for something...something. He felt more vulnerable in this moment than he had ever in his life. Moments like this, their conversation felt very real and adult and terrifying, more terrifying than anything they had witnessed at the academy or on the field.

Treize clasped his hand tight. "Sometimes, war makes people blind."

"Doctors say four centimeters to the left, and you would have been half-blind."

Treize smiled in a way that comforted Zechs greatly. They wouldn't have another conversation like this again. They never had to. They both peered out the window, with only the cycle of the vitals monitor's gentle beeping to lull them through the night.

* * *

Zechs squeezed her hand twice before letting go, the memories of his time with Treize settling in his mind. He had thought once or twice about writing them down, so as not to forget, but he found that the more he thought about Treize, the more vivid and detailed their past encounters became.

This time was no different. Treize's words echoed in his ears as he kissed Relena softly, once on each cheek, before heading out of the room with barely a nod to the guards. He made one phone call and in less than one hour he was on a flight to L2.

* * *

When Zechs approached the warehouse, he heard Duo's scratchy voice call out to him from beneath a pile of mobile suit scrap.

"Evening, Zechs," Duo murmured. Zechs stood awkwardly at the outside entrance of the makeshift hangar, surrounded by mobile suit corpses, blueprints, and oil-slicked asphalt. Squinting his eyes against the sun, he saw that the warehouse was connected to a small trailer where Duo most likely slept at night. Knowing 02, he had no doubt that the young man spent most of his time where he was at that moment, long legs sticking out haphazardly from beneath his work.

"Good evening," Zechs greeted in return, a small smile tugging at his lips as his senses soaked in the familiar sights and smells of grease and metal. He felt immediately at ease as he counted the tools lined up along the side of the workbenches against the wall. "Nice place."

"I detect a little sarcasm there," Duo called out once more, a large _clang!_ interrupting his even demeanor. "_Fuck!_ Son of a bitch!" He emerged from beneath the scrap holding a grease-stained rag to the back of his left hand, eyes shut tight in pain. Zechs looked at the man's face for the first time in nearly five years, and it was remarkably no different. The same dark braid laid across the man's chest like an afterthought, the same bangs were plastered to his face with sweat-

"Fuck...fuck! Hey, would ya make yourself useful and hand me that rag over there?" Duo said, not looking at Zechs, motioning wildly with his non-wounded hand.

Same mouth, too, Zechs noted, as he carefully lifted two clean rags from the nearby table and dropped them into Duo's outstretched hand. Duo threw the old blood and grease soaked rag aside as he rolled onto his side and stood in one movement, exhibiting grace unseen by Zechs' eyes. Or, perhaps it had just been too long for him to remember. Zechs' eyes landed on three large bottles of peroxide on the same side table, and he picked one up, leaving his travel bag on the ground. He approached Duo, who was hunched over a table in the back of the garage, inspecting the torn skin of his hand.

"I'm still a goddamn danger to myself, as you can see, " Duo cracked, as he felt Zechs come near.

Zechs smirked and leaned against the table with one hip, unscrewing the cap of the peroxide with the other. "You'll probably want this."

Duo looked up at him for the first time since Zechs' arrival. Zechs could see that spark once held by his blue eyes was now replaced with a tired countenance, a few lines on his face intersecting with the butterfly bandages holding together three or four ugly cuts across his cheek and forehead. Zechs wondered when they all became so tired.

"Thanks," Duo said, grabbing the bottle and walking over to one of the open trash compartments. "Hilde keeps this place well-stocked." He grimaced as he liberally poured the peroxide over his hand, the wound area beginning to bubble immediately.

"She likely knows what you're capable of," Zechs noted.

Duo laughed heartily, but it was a darker laugh that Zechs had never heard before. Layered and sad, somehow. "Ain't that the truth," Duo replied, shaking off the excess liquid. He pressed a clean rag to his hand, applying pressure, running off to yet another corner of the room. He kept Zechs on his toes; always two steps ahead.

"You want a drink?" Duo shouted from below a worktable where suddenly two beers were produced.

"I'm fine, thank you," Zechs said.

Duo shrugged and shut the mini-fridge below the workbenches with his foot. "More for me," he mumbled as he walked towards the entrance to the adjacent trailer. He made a rather humorous face of relief as the coldness of the beer cans was pressed to his wounded hand. Zechs smiled before he realized it.

"Wanna come inside and sit fer a minute? I doubt you're just 'in the neighborhood.'" Duo grinned and disappeared inside before hearing any response. Zechs supposed he didn't have to-he followed the ex-pilot inside.

The interior was nothing like he'd expected, very clean and plain with small touches of home. Five mismatched, hand-crocheted pot-holders lined the kitchen area, which was a small island in the center for cooking across from a tiny bar and two hand-made stools. Across from the kitchen was a small living room with a couch that was pulled out into a bed. Two knitted afghans spilled from the sofa-bed onto the carpet. Ten to a dozen photos lined what little wall-space was available, all the frames a conglomeration of wood pieces, metal, and plastic. It was full of character, just like the boy who sat in the recliner across from the sofa-bed, footrest already up. He chugged one of the beers he'd removed from the fridge, crushed the can in his hand and tossed it into the bin next to the chair, already full of other cans that had met a similar fate.

"Take a seat if you want," Duo said, motioning to the couch. "You can put the bed back in it-"

"No, it's all right; I prefer to stand." Zechs' attention lingered on the photographs on the wall before leaning against the doorframe.

"I heard what happened to Relena," Duo said, furrowing his eyebrows. "I assume that's why you're here. The Protectors are on L2 after all. I thought you'd bring an entourage or somethin' though. Thought this place would be fuckin' crawling with Preventer soilders by now."

"That depends on what Une wants to do," Zechs replied. "I assume that the Preventers will begin an investigation shortly. I left before hearing any plans of their activity."

"Gonna be okay?"

"Yes. She'll be all right. Thanks for asking."

Duo tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "I know Relena's all right; they practically broadcast her stats over the radio every ten minutes. How are _you_ holding up?"

Zechs was taken aback, squinted his eyes a bit. "Fine, I suppose. Didn't really think about it. Thanks, though."

"Hilde'll be home in about a half an hour or so, if you wanna stay for dinner. Nothin' special, prob'ly nothin' like what you usually have."

"I keep to myself these days. Live simple. I hear you're the same."

Duo shrugged. "I s'pose you're right. We got a good life here."

"At any rate, I don't want to impose. I'm only here for some information. If you don't mind."

Duo laughed a little, trailing off into a sigh as he gingerly picked up his bandaged hand to open the remaining beer with the other. He took a large gulp, sighed again. "Everyone wants some goddamn information, Zechs. Don't know why everyone thinks that I'm the hub of fuckin' knowledge in this universe." He opened his eyes and peered at him through hazy eyes. "What can I do you for?"

"Do you know anything about the Protectors?" He wasn't usually so blunt, but he was running out of time and pictures on the wall.

"Not much. Not more than you prob'ly know already. They wanna start a war. I guess assassinating the damn world icon for peace was their first order of business. But, they're probably low on numbers. Might seem big on this colony, but to the world, they're still a speck in size."

"Like five teenage Gundam pilots against all of OZ?"

Duo laughed from his gut. Filled the room. "I guess you're right-a speck. But-"

"Oh, I know. Very different-you five were all trained, all knew your responsibility. The weight of your actions. I guess what I'm asking is if you know what kind of threat we're up against."

Duo sat up, scratched the side of his face. "If ya want my opinion, they're not a solitary unit, and they prob'ly don't all share the same reasons for wanting independence from Earth. But, what they _do_ have in common is that they are not afraid one damn bit of resorting to violence. They think it's the only thing that'll solve their problems. I've heard about Protector activity for upwards of a year now. They're prob'ly easily provoked. It'll be hard to get them to back down."

"So what you mean to say is that what they lack in organization, they make up for in fervor."

Duo nodded. Zechs took a minute to process before continuing.

"What do you know about Heero Yuy's involvement with the Protectors?"

He smirked. "Likely you know more than I do. When the war ended, I didn't hear a fuckin' peep from Heero after that."

"You didn't try to get back in touch with him at all?"

"We were just Gundam pilots. When we're at war, there's a reason for us to stick together. After the war, it doesn't mean much, does it?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it," Zechs mused.

"If Heero ever wanted to give me a call, send me a video log, drop by my damn house, he could've done it. Anytime! Door's open. Everybody knows that. I'm not what you'd call 'high class' or nothin'. No appointment necessary. But he didn't. He didn't want to. Actually, you bein' here right now, _you've_ done more to reconnect with me than Heero ever did."

Zechs blinked. "So, you weren't close to Heero Yuy at all?"

"Out of sight, out of mind, man. Not worth worryin' about him. Hilde was talkin' about how she'd heard that Heero was involved somehow with the Protectors, and then I _really_ didn't want to know what was up with him."

"Where did she hear that from?"

Duo took another swig before responding. "This colony's not that big. You just hear things. I'm sure if you just walked down to the goddamn grocery store, you'd hear things. Everybody's got a fuckin' opinion, you know?"

Zechs nodded. "I see." He shifted his weight, and steadied his eyes, his voice. Two deep breaths. "What about Trowa Barton?"

"Trowa was here just yesterday," Duo continued without missing a beat. "Said he was going to figure out who tried to kill Relena, and wanted me to tell him all I knew about the Protectors. Told him the same thing I'm telling you now."

"Had you kept in touch with Trowa after the war?"

"Moreso than Heero. But, I could say that about just about anybody." He tilted his head back to finish off his second beer. "Maybe once or twice a year. Trowa's never been much of a talker, though." Duo smirked a little. "Although I hear that the two of _you_ have been spending _plenty_ of time together, so I don't know why you're asking me anything about Trowa. Why didn't you ask him yourself?"

Zechs swallowed and kept his facial expression steady. "Like you said, he's not really much of a 'talker'."

Duo cleared his throat. "Well, the last I had heard from Trowa was about six months before Heero turned up dead. Trowa looked real bad, but said that Heero was sick with something, so he'd been up all night, takin' care of him, I guess. You know Heero'd never go to a fuckin' doctor or nothin' like that."

Zechs nodded. "Was it serious?"

"The way he was talkin' about it, I don't think it's the first time. Seemed pretty serious, but you know Heero. Never changed. He didn't say, but I think it's the same way that Quatre gets sick every year, pretty bad. Messed up from the ZERO system."

"The ZERO system..." Zechs' mind raced; he could feel his eyes shifting side to side as his thoughts collided.

Duo cocked his head to the side. "You get it, too, don't you?"

Zechs was thrown from his thoughts. "Yes. About once a year."

Shaking his head, Duo got up suddenly and walked past him to the kitchen. "The ZERO system doesn't fuck around. Never messed with that; my head's messed up enough already."

He watched him rummage through the refrigerator and pull some things from the freezer to defrost in the sink. Zechs stepped to the side, out of Duo's view, to take a closer look at the pictures on the wall, the sounds of the sink water running filling the silence that spread between them for the next five of six minutes.

All the pictures were of Duo and Hilde together, with the exception of one, in the darkest corner of the room, barely visible by the lamplight. It was the five ex-Gundam pilots, taken at the commemorative ceremony that Relena held, soon after the peace treaty was signed. All five pilots were in attendance and awarded the World Alliance's highest honors by Relena herself. Zechs noted that this was-and would be- the last time all five of the pilots had been together.

He touched the face of Trowa Barton with two fingers, the dust coming off easily in tiny flecks that fell to the carpet.

_What happened, Trowa? _Zechs thought to himself. His thoughts were so intense that his shoulders jerked as he was catapulted into reality with the slam of the door from the garage.

"Oh, thanks for doing that." He heard Hilde's voice from the kitchen, like a soft song.

"No problem, babe," Duo began, peering past her to nod towards Zechs. "We have-"

"We got the check from the Preventers today," Hilde interrupted. Zechs slowly approached the doorway and set his eyes on Hilde's petite frame; her back was towards him and she was unpacking groceries from a cloth bag she wore around her shoulders. She threw an envelope his way, and Duo's attention turned from Zechs in order to grasp the envelope in mid-air.

"That's great, babe!" he said. "It's about time!"

"Well, you know how they are. But, it should be enough, right?"

"More than enough," Duo assured her, opening the letter. She put a gallon of milk away in the fridge, and carefully lifted a pot from the shelf and placed it on the burner.

"I can't wait to get out of here. This kitchen is so small."

"Well," Duo said, eyes and smile wide as he looked at the payment that was enclosed in the mail. "As long as I don't lose any business, I'd say our new life in the suburbs won't be as shitty as I once thought."

Hilde rolled her eyes and Duo on the backside with a spatula. "It'll be nice to have new things, for a change."

"Well, in our new house, we can have the biggest kitchen you want. As long as I can have the biggest garage that I want."

He winked once towards Zechs view before he turned and grabbed Hilde's by the back of her shirt to pull her into a hug from behind. She made a squealing sort of noise that bubbled into girlish laughter.

The moment was too intimate for Zechs-made him close his eyes and wince a little. He debated an attempt to leave quietly instead of interrupting them, in spite of the fact that the only exit appeared to be in the kitchen where they stood. However, Duo soon planted a loud kiss on Hilde's cheek before spinning her around to face the living area.

"Babe, we have a guest. You remember Zechs, right?"

Hilde's eyes went wide. Zechs nodded awkwardly, and stepped tentatively into the kitchen. "Hello, Hilde. It's been a long time."

Hilde stood with her mouth agape for a moment before shaking her head and taking Zechs' hand, leading him further into the kitchen. "Oh, my god, I didn't even see you there! Zechs, come in! Have dinner!"

"No, I actually have to be on my way," he said. "But, thank you for the offer. You have a lovely home."

Hilde rolled her eyes again and smiled wide. "Come back in a few months, and I promise it'll be a lot nicer. More than two rooms! A driveway!"

Zechs smiled politely; the air was suddenly hot and stuffy. "I'll talk to Relena as well, and see if she'd like to visit."

Hilde clapped her hand over her chest. "I heard about Relena, Zechs. Is she okay?"

"The news said she'll be fine, and Zechs did, too, sweetheart, so let the poor man on his way, arrite?" Duo piped up from behind her. Hilde attempted a stern look which was put to rest by Duo's mischievous smile. "I'm gonna see Zechs out-"

"No, no need," Zechs interrupted. The kitchen was indeed too small. "Thank you for your time, Duo. Hilde." He left without another word.

He took two large gasps of air as he exited the house, picking up his travel bag in one motion and walking quickly towards his rental car some thirty paces away. He left, the conversation with the former God of Death circling his mind, over and over, like the cycle of noises from the vitals machine in that hospital room, years ago.

* * *

_-tbc-_

_One more part left, guys. Thanks for sticking with it._


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